


that's how the light gets in

by impossibleamypond



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Exploration of grief, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, i needed to be sad about this for a while, just kidding im going to be sad about this forever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 14:10:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19792525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibleamypond/pseuds/impossibleamypond
Summary: She shouldn’t have to keep burying the ones she loves in empty caskets, in shallow graves where the sunlight can’t reach them and yet, that’s all she seems to do.





	that's how the light gets in

They bury him on a Friday.

It’s hot enough that the back of her neck sweats as she stands at the edge of his grave, staring down into it. An empty casket sits deep inside the depths of it, the mounds of dirt tossed on top by the mourners who paid their respects darkened by shadows, the slant of the sun just right that it can’t reach him down here. 

None of them can. 

But he’s not there, is he?

He’s not here, he’s not there, and Joyce --- well, she can’t feel him anywhere. 

Can’t see him, can’t hear him, can’t even imagine him in her mind’s eye without a sharp rattling of bones that sees her shaking, trembling from head to toe. Grief, fear, confusion, but mostly she feels lost, wayward and terrified of what comes after and what life is going to be like now that they are suddenly without: a chief of police, a father, a friend. It threatens to rip through her, to tear her apart, to scratch its way up the back of her throat until her voice is rough and it breaks on a sob so it sounds like a scream, anguished and drawn out, but instead she sets her lips into a hard line, her chin dimpling from the effort to keep it together. 

Her eyes burn just like the back of her neck does, and she draws in a deep breath through her nose, her fingers curling around the palm full of dirt slowly returning to mud from the humidity and sweat of her closed fist.

She can’t lose it. Not when the entire town -- or what’s left of it in the wake of the Mind Flayer, at any rate -- has turned up for his funeral. There are too many eyes on her, accompanied by lips too eager to spread words that may or may not be true. But she’s used to rumors and living lies and this? This is just another charade that she’ll play, cast in a role not of her own choosing, but it is here that she finds herself nonetheless; do what you can with the cards you’ve been dealt and all of that bullshit. 

Only unlike the other lies that she's told in her life (she's fine; she can do this on her own, she doesn't need anyone's help, things have been worse than this before; it's only the first time that he's hit her; that she's doing better, smiling more, laughing all of the time), this one doesn’t settle right. Just like when she was told that her son was dead, her baby boy, and she couldn't feel the truth of it, so she didn't believe it, fought against it, and found him, alive and real and hers. That time, she was right to believe, to trust in herself and to trust Hopper with it, too; it was one thing to trust him with her own life, but to trust him with Will's and to see them all home safe -- well, that's all he has ever done for them. 

That's what he died doing.

Joyce doesn't trust the lie now; it feels too fragile, yes, but unlike the last time, there's no government trying to dupe her. No documents to sign, no non-disclosure agreements to reach; there's no gag yet she feels like she's choking on her words all of the time. Because unlike with Will, there's no room for doubt because she saw him -- she saw him _die_ \-- and she witnessed _how_ he died, and to lie about it, to cover it up -- it feels wrong. _She_ feels wrong. All of it feels wrong, uncomfortable as the sweat that slicks the back of her neck and drips down the collar of her black dress, and it sends a shiver racing down her spine all the way to her toes, which she curls around the edge of the grave, teeming closer, feeling the pull of it.

This lie, it’s not so easy to live in, to adapt to. The whole town may be here and their grief may be genuine, but it’s not true; they think there’s a body in the casket, that Jim Hopper died in a fire, and not saving the world. 

At the very least, he saved her world: her sons, their friends, her heart or what was left of it; now, it feels like ribbons, bloodied and stripped raw so every beat of it hurts.

Unbidden: a sob breaks through her resolve, soft enough that only Jonathan seems to hear it; the hand she finds in her own stills the shaking of her fingers even if it doesn’t disquiet the slow-fast-fast-fast-slow beating of her heart. He doesn’t say anything; her son doesn’t look at her, but he squeezes her hand and she takes a breath and --

They bury him on a Friday, and it shouldn’t feel like just another day of the week because it’s not. This doesn’t happen every Friday; this shouldn’t be their normal. She shouldn’t have to keep burying the ones she loves in empty caskets, in shallow graves where the sunlight can’t reach them and yet, that’s all she seems to do. 

“Come on, Mom,” Jonathan says at her shoulder. “It’s time to go.” Soft, but not timid, like she’s going to break from the mere sound of someone’s voice. 

Right here, right now, there’s only one voice that could break her apart, and she won’t hear it again. Not unless she heeds her son’s words and goes back to a place that won’t ever really feel like a home again, just like Hawkins will never really feel like her home again despite living here her entire life, and takes the phone into her room to call the station and listen to his answering machine; it’s only been a week and they haven’t wiped it and she hopes they never will and -- 

“Mom,” says Jonathan, sniffling a little. “Please.”

How long has she been standing here? 

She blinks at him, confused and hurt with a mind too muddled by both to process that he’s moved his hand from hers to her elbow and is gently pulling her with him; several feet over his shoulder stands Will and El, with the rest of their friends huddled around them, offering comfort when and where she can’t. 

Guilt threatens to open up beneath her feet, sweeping her into the grave at the edge of which she stands, but then she meets El’s gaze and sees how it shines in the fading light of a July afternoon, and finds enough resolve to take a breath and draw herself upright. Just as she trusted Hop with Will, Hopper trusted her with Eleven, to take care of her and see that her needs are met and that she's loved, and that she knows it, that she can feel it; and that eases the tension knotted up in her stomach, even if only sees her eyes burning furiously, the edges of her children going blurry the longer she looks at them.

Finally, she pulls her gaze away. Joyce sniffles and nods, letting herself be drawn away. “Okay.” She wipes at her eyes with a knuckle, offering a watery smile to her eldest, who steps in close enough to wrap an arm around her shoulders in a half-hug; she slides her own around his back and sighs heavily, leaning into him a little too much (just like she’s always done), as they make their way back to the car.

**Author's Note:**

> Most nonsensical ramblings. Title is pulled from the lyrics of "Anthem" by Leonard Cohen. I hope you liked it!


End file.
